Kallus laughs. Not soft. Not distant. It’s a full-chested, unrestrained roar. “Nothing would make me more proud.”
But I feel it—that flutter behind his grin. Not fear, but awe. The dawning realization that our child may not just be strong. She may be revolutionary.
When the last child falls, Chelsea stands in the center, panting. Dirt streaked across her brow. Blood at her lip—but none of it hers.
She turns to me and grins. “Did I do it right?”
“You did it perfect,” I say, voice thick with pride.
The Elder steps forward, raising Chelsea’s hand. “Daughter of fire and steel. Of blood and light. You are Reaper, child. Recognized by trial and triumph.”
The crowd roars.
Kallus moves toward her, lifting her easily into his arms. She squeals, throws her arms around his neck.
“She’s going to be more than we ever were,” I whisper to the Elder.
He glances at me. “She already is.”
We walk through the city as twilight spills across the spires of Tyrannus. Bone torches light the sky with green flame. Drums beat deep in the ground—echoes of a civilization older than Earth, older than the stars we came from.
In a quiet moment, I take Kallus’s hand.
“No more hiding,” I say.
His eyes search mine. “No more Earth.”
“I’d rather stay with my real family.”
He nods. “She is declared. The clans have recognized her. She carries my blood… and yours. A child of prophecy.”
We stand at the edge of the central spire, watching the stars wheel above us. And for once, for just a moment, there’s peace.
Maybe fleeting.
But real.
And ours.
The Bone Ringis nothing like any place I’ve ever seen. Even the wind seems to respect its weight — a low howl that rolls through the concentric circles of carved stone, sound like thunder bending backward on itself. The air smells of rain on iron and bone dust, and every breath I take feels like it’s been tempered by history and solemn vows.
I stand beside Kallus, Chelsea clutched in his arms, and I swear I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, like it’s trying to shout its own name. Today isn’t a battle. It isn’t war. It’s something older: a rite, a birth, a declaration. A moment that will echo long after any war song ends.
The Bone Ring is packed — Reapers in bone-plated armor, ceremonial daggers resting at hips, eyes like embers in the dusk. The circle slopes upward in stone seats, a natural amphitheater that seems to embrace the horizon itself. Above us, the sky is bruised blue and violet, as if the world itself is holding its breath.
I’m kneeling beside Kallus. Our knees ache against the stone, but no one shifts. We are still as history.
A thousand eyes — burning with anticipation — watch us.
The High Bone-Singer stands before us, tall and gaunt, scent of cedarwood incense clinging to his robes. His voice is a low rumble that seems to shake the ground itself.
“Today we witness not merely growth,” he says, “but destiny. A child born of two worlds: fire and bone, blood and spirit. A child who carries both the hammer of war and the song of peace. Today we give her name among the clans.”
Chelsea squirms a little in Kallus’s arms, soft breath warm against my own chest. I can feel her small heart fluttering like a bird learning its wings.
I want to speak — to whisper something fierce and tender — but the moment presses down on me like silence before rain.
“Kallus of the Storm Clave,” the High Bone-Singer continues, “you stand before the clans not as a whisper in the dark but as a roaring fate. Ayla of Verne House, you stand with him as witness and strength. Do you accept the blood your daughter carries?”
